


One last act

by CamilleDuDemon



Series: I will run to you (when my journey is over) [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Contracts, Eskel Whump (The Witcher), Established Relationship, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt Eskel (The Witcher), Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Monsters, Old men witchering, Whump, Witchering, once a witcher always a witcher
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:01:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29631534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CamilleDuDemon/pseuds/CamilleDuDemon
Summary: [Set after the events of the DLC "Blood and Wine"]Eskel loves Corvo Bianco. He absolutely adores it. Not to mention the fact that he gets to wake up every single day next to the love of his life, a luxury that nearly no witcher has ever been granted.Still.What if he's not ready to retire yet? And what if Geralt does also miss having some action into his now idyllic life?And what if, at some point, something goes terribly wrong?
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Series: I will run to you (when my journey is over) [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2156556
Comments: 8
Kudos: 22





	One last act

**Author's Note:**

> This work is part of a series, but it can be read as a stand-alone fic. Hope you enjoy ❤
> 
> Come and say hi on Tumblr: https://camilleisback.tumblr.com/

“You think you’re up for a little bit of action?”

Eskel lifts his gaze from the book he was idly reading, a nice cup of rich red wine served at room temperature sitting on the low table in front of him.

“Depends on the action, Wolf,” he replies, his brow quirked with amused curiosity.

Nevertheless, he must admit he would definitely pay for some action, at this point. Sure as hell living in Corvo Bianco is nice and cozy, and working in the vineyard or in the fields is satisfying and tiring enough to put him to bed with a nice grin plastered on his lips, but.

_ But. _

Learned or natural, wanted or loathed, there’s still that kind of restlessness in him, that spark igniting fires in his veins, that absolute need for putting his muscles to a decent use -- it’s a rare occurrence, it’s true, but it gets more urgent by the day, as he goes on with his chores and he takes one single lazy day at week, when the peasants gather to praise Saint Lebioda or whatever personality they worship nowadays alongside their precious Fire.

He’s sure Geralt can feel it, though he hasn’t dared to talk about his  _ needs  _ so openly, fearing he would have hurt him by merely suggesting they could  _ un-retire  _ once in a while, since Geralt has grown so accustomed to a life without any single bit of witchering in it, save for their sparring session and the sign practicing they engage in once every two weeks, to keep their fingers flexible and their chaos ready, should a time come in which they need to use their signs again in a real fight.

Not enough action, apparently. Eskel’s teeth are on edge with excitement seeing Geralt flash a smug smile at him.

“Make your guess.”

Eskel snorts, but he pretends to think about it very hard anyway.

“Ah, don’t know, Wolf. Could be anything. The grape-harvest is approaching fast -- maybe one of your neighbors needs a hand in his vineyard? It’s common knowledge that a witcher alone can do the work of four men in their prime, though an old crone like me,” he playfully teases, his hand reaching for Geralt’s and giving it a warm squeeze. Geralt shakes his head, bending forward to make their foreheads touch briefly and plant a gentle kiss on the new wrinkle that has recently appeared right over his nose.

“ _ Our  _ neighbors, Eskel,” he gently corrects, a soft look on his face. “And no, I’m not selling you off like a workhorse, you idiot.”

Eskel smirks, bringing Geralt’s hand to his lips and placing a series of loud, sucking kisses to his knuckles.

“My, my, can it be a contract then, Wolf? A real one? With coin and risk and adventure?”

Geralt chuckles quietly, allowing Eskel to toy with his hand as much as he likes, smelling so content and relaxed his scent could rival that of the late blooming flowers outside.

"Coin is sparse, risk is not too high and adventure...well. You'll judge for yourself. It's a short ride, though. Two hours at most, southward," he shrugs, and Eskel can feel the thrill coming from him in waves.

_ A witcher is a witcher is a witcher. _

"Vineyard infestation?" he inquiries, stretching his impossibly long legs under the low table. Geralt takes a sip of his wine without asking for permission and a satisfied hum comes from his throat afterwards.

"What else. Seems like monsters have nothing better to do than infesting vineyards during the harvest season, how convenient.”

Eskel doesn’t miss the hint of sarcasm in the back of Geralt’s husky voice, and he furrows his brows at his statement.

“What are you implying?”

“Could be foul play, it wouldn’t be the first time I’ve stumbled upon someone deliberately releasing archespore bulbs into the vineyard of a competitor, or luring centipedes on a competitor’s land with some impromptu bait. It’s usually bloody business, by the way. I expect at least a couple of bodies and no instigator, but we’re not ducal guards, which means that we don’t give a shit about crime  _ per se,  _ right?”

Oh, how Eskel would like to believe him. Alas, Geralt has never been good at keeping himself out of unnecessary trouble, so a simple witcher can only hope.

“Right,” he says, mirroring Geralt’s tone. “It’s archespore, then, or a nest of centipedes?"

Businesslike, thought tainted with just that bit of excitement one would expect from a youngster freshly off on the Path, because old habits die hard. Hell, it's a small miracle he isn't already asking about the pay or general information about the site. A smile tugs at his ruined mouth, his scar pulling where the notch in his upper lip gets more evident. Geralt is allowing himself to get carried away by his enthusiasm, because his grin deepens as he, too, enters his witcher-doing-serious-witchering mode again.

“From what I gathered in Beauclair, I’m almost sure it’s archespores. Hard to miss, actually, though the secretary that has approached me with the contract already in hand had a little information himself.”

“Mmmh. Death count so far?”

Geralt shrugs, making a small sound with his nose.

“Can’t say for sure. Secretary -- what the fuck was his name? Rat something. Had something to do with rats. However, he said it’s up to seven peasants going missing while picking the grapes, starting two weeks ago. Ah, and we can include in this count a stable boy and a housemaid, which makes for nine people in fifteen days. Sounds like archespore work to me, considering that someone has reported of a sticky, acidic substance smeared across the vineyard.”

“Centipedes excrete a similar substance too,” Eskel tries to argue, but solely for the sake of a nice debate concerning monsters, like the interminable academical disputations they used to set up in Kaer Morhen right after dinner, before being too drunk to come up with a coherent sentence that involved at least one word that wasn’t slurred or somehow maimed. Geralt shakes his head.

“No evident holes nor mounds, says the secretary. Gotta be archespores.”

“You may be right. Wanna place a bet?”

“Fine by me. If I win this, you try on that stunning doublet that I had made specifically for you in Beauclair and you wear it at the harvest celebrations. If I lose, the Everluce in our cellar is all yours.”

Eskel does already know he’s losing this, of course. He knows the Bestiary by heart, being more than a century old, and of fucking course it can’t be giant centipedes this time. Yet he accepts the bet, because he’s feeling so cocky, so full of life, so himself again.

He needed a break, it’s true, and quite desperately so to be honest. But now that he has settled, he craves action above anything else. Only one bit. A taste. Nothing too complicated like curse lifting or any other thing that would require most of his focus. An archespore nest will do the trick just nicely, allowing him to exercise his dexterity on the field once more. 

When he and Geralt are done with the talking, Eskel realizes he’s been smiling so much his cheekbones have started to feel sore.

***   
  


“And now, lo and behold, Toussaint’s largest vineyard. Used to be a private property of the court, before late Duchess Anna Henrietta died.”

Eskel can’t help but make quite an impressed face at the amount of cultivated land stretching right before them.

“Oh fuck me, who owns the place now? Even you couldn't afford to buy this much land, and you’re ludicrously rich, Wolf!” He states, stressing the word  _ rich  _ so much it echoes through the uncharacteristically silent fields. 

“Same person who owns the Duchy, no less. An appointed governor from Nilfgaard. Formally, the Duchy is still an independent vassal state, but on the practical side of things…” Geralt leaves the sentence hanging for a moment, shrugging his shoulders in the crisp morning air, the sun not yet risen in full from behind the mountain peaks. Eskel hopes his eloquent silence on the matter means that he’s done meddling with the quarrels of kings, local lords and mages, but he somehow doubts Geralt will ever do that. “Well, you know how these things go. They’ve even started teaching nilfgaardian in some minor schools, southerners don’t seem to be very fond of the local dialect.”

Eskel gives him a raised brow.  _ Of course he’s still sticking his nose where he shouldn’t. _

“And you know this why…?”

“Done some charity for the schools and the orphanages in Beauclair, some years ago. They still send yearly reports and bulletins to Corvo Bianco,” Geralt explains, an innocent look on his dashingly beautiful features.

“Mmmh.”

Eskel doesn’t ask further questions. Geralt seems a little uneasy, sometimes, whilst reminiscing about his first years in Toussaint. Many times Eskel has wondered why, and many times he has chosen not to ask, too afraid to strike a nerve -- or worse. The sole thought of hurting Geralt, though not purposefully, makes his stomach twist and churn terribly.

"Come on, now. We must see the secretary before we're off for the vineyard."

***

The blade sings, and the song reminds Eskel of his youth, of Kaer Morhen as it was before the people of the nearby villages, rallied by the mages and the Kaedweni Crown, sacked it and killed off every Wolf that had tried to defend their home.

The blade sings, and the archespores wriggle, spit, hiss and die at his feet, drying up and rotting as soon as their barbed flowers get severed from their roots.

He grins, though some of the caustic substance excreted by the plants has sprayed on his face, blistering the already marred skin. Geralt is quite close; he can hear the soft huffing sounds escaping his lips and the crunchy, loud noise of the dry ground under the soles of his boots.

He's doing just fine, of course, but he can't help feeling relief wash over him when his nose doesn't detect any smell of blood or distress.

Archespores, though treacherous as monsters go, are rather easy creatures to get rid off for a seasoned witcher. Provided that the archespores in question aren't too much. He and Geralt are taking care of a rather small infestation - they have counted a dozen plants in total - and with the right amount of controlled signs and some brute force they have gotten halfway through the job in a rather reasonable time.

_ Still. _

They’re both panting when they’re done, ogling at each other and grinning like kids from one end of the vineyard to the other, and Eskel realizes all of a sudden how much he has missed the familiar soreness in his muscles, the tingling in his knuckles for having gripped at the hilt of his sword with too much force. His grin widens, so much his scar pulls uncomfortably, but fuck the ugly scar, he doesn’t care, he’s satisfied and - not without a pang - he thinks that maybe,  _ maybe,  _ tending to the vineyard and the olives isn’t the kind of retirement he seeks.

Provided that he does seek for a  _ permanent retirement  _ at all.

Shaking his head, Eskel swallows the thought down with deep regret and a hint of shame: Geralt has welcomed him in his new, peaceful and quiet domestic routine, and it would be deeply unjust to simply decline this kind of new normalcy that Geralt has so generously chosen to share with him.

He steadies himself with a sigh and meets Geralt in the middle of the field, where they exchange a brief, brotherly contact and a slight smirk. It’s been a good job, all in all. Nice, clean, with minimal damage to the vineyard, though a couple of plants have been scorched by the intensity of Eskel’s Igni. Some of the bodies - or rather what’s left of them - are still obscenely splayed on the ground, limbs missing, some made completely unrecognizable by the corrosive action of the archespore acid.

“As for the corpses?” Eskel finds himself asking, gesturing towards a body with both his legs missing and some strips of what it looks like a former red tunic glued to its blistery, decaying skin. Geralt shrugs.

“We’ll talk to the secretary, see if we should set up a pyre or let the peasants have a funeral service or whatever. There aren’t many necrophages here, but you’re right, we must do something for the bodies.”

Eskel only nods. The talk with the secretary is brief and business-like as he pays them the agreed sum minus a fee for the damage, stating that the pyre would be the best solution for everyone. Eskel doesn’t like prodding and maneuvering cadavers, but he isn’t squeamish either since being a witcher means dealing with a lot of dead bodies almost on a daily basis. Quickly and efficiently, he and Geralt start collecting the disemboweled peasants scattered around the archespores and soon enough a large pyre is set in a secluded courtyard, where some people gather to mourn and cry, the nauseous smell of cooking hair and scorched flesh permeating the air and fading into the background as soon as Eskel's nostrils have gotten used to it.

Eskel can’t help but think that,  _ all things considered,  _ this contract has gone as smooth as silk, and a satisfied smile remains plastered on his lips until late at night, when Geralt steals it away with a kiss.

***

“A shaelmaar? You sure it’s a shaelmaar?”

Carefully picking some celandine from the garden, Geralt nods, the thick clouds hanging in the sky casting long shadows over his face.

“We can refuse if you don’t feel like fighting against a shaelmaar yet, Eskel. We’re not the only witchers alive, after all, for what I know.”

Eskel rolls his eyes, bumping his hip into Geralt’s butt as he tries not to butcher some arenaria in such a narrow working space. A whiff of chilly mountain air carries the smell of the approaching fall to his nostrils, along with that of the liver patè the maid is cooking down in the kitchen.

“And let that beast do any more damage? Please, Geralt. You don’t have to coddle me on this. I…” he pauses for a moment. The image of that poor girl is still so vivid in his brain that all it would take to conjure it back is to flutter his eyes closed for the briefest moment. But he’s quick to pull himself together and cutting it short. “I can deal with the past, Wolf. I just -- needed time.” 

Geralt must not deem it necessary to question him on that, because Eskel hears the rustling of his shirt as he shrugs in that kind of  _ if-that-makes-you-happy  _ way that’s both infuriating and absolutely  _ beautiful  _ at once.

“Pays handsomely,” Geralt says then, scratching at the sparse stubble on his chin, and Eskel hums appreciatively. Apparently, every contract in Toussaint pays handsomely. Frankly, he’s shocked by the fact that the few witchers that are still roaming around aren’t fighting over the slips of parchment piling up on every single noticeboard in Beauclair, because he hasn’t seen a single one paying less than three hundred Novigrad crowns and -- well, three hundred Novigrad crowns are a little fortune, honestly, although the preferred currency in the duchy is that of Nilfgaard and Eskel always has to do the maths and convert the sums while looking up for interesting and not too challenging contracts while in the City.

“I bet. Looking to the bright side of things, we’ll have something to entertain ourselves with, this afternoon. It’ll rain soon. I suggest we lock ourselves up in the lab till supper, making some relict oil and decoctions for the fight. My last encounter with a shaelmaar has been -- uh. Not one of my most brilliant hunts.”

Geralt rests his hand on his hip and squeezes, warm and reassuring. Eskel leans into his touch, and presses his back to his chest, bending his neck backwards to take in as much of his scent as he can.

_ Home. _

_ Geralt smells like home. _

"Half of the village has already moved, by the way. There shouldn't be too many people to gather and take somewhere safe, this time," Geralt points out, lips fleetingly brushing against Eskel's forehead.

It's set, then. It wouldn't have done much difference, in Eskel's opinion, if Geralt had told him they had to evacuate the entire town, but somehow it makes him feel less antsy to know that, hopefully, he won't witness another little girl being crushed to death by a massive shaelmaar.

However, they really spend the entire afternoon brewing potions and vials of oil, falling into a familiar and easy routine almost immediately, each one of them perfectly able to tell what to do and when so to avoid stepping on each other's toes as they work side by side by the long table. Just like when they're fighting together, one knows the rhythm of the other so well they just -- fit so perfectly. A well-oiled mechanism shaped by a century of familiarity, their minds thinking almost alike and bodies behaving accordingly.

They're done long past dinnertime, and the downpour is still raging outside when they step into the dining room, the smell of herbs and toxins clinging to their hair and clothes like it used to be when they were both still walking the Path full-time.

Again, Eskel finds himself grinning, feeling the rush of the upcoming hunt tingle pleasantly in his nerves.

***

The shaelmaar is big and angry, and it makes it very clear it's not going to leave anytime soon, nor that he’s determined to go out without a proper fight. Fight which, sadly, both Eskel and Geralt are extraordinarily unprepared for. Their first visit to the infested village was meant to be a mere reconnaissance, just to confirm that the monster they were after was  _ actually  _ a shaelmaar and search the tunnels dug right under the buildings for its nest.

The shaelmaar, however, has detected them long before they could detect him - a rare occurrence, but not an impossible event - and now they have to deal with the fucking, huge beast underground, with the thin layer of crumbly rock above threatening to collapse on their heads at every charge of the furious monster.

Seems like the surplus of samum bombs they’re carrying on them won’t do any good in such a predicament. Eskel clenches his jaw, unsheathing his sword, and in a frustrated hiss he whispers “What now?” towards Geralt, whose stream of curses hasn’t failed to reach the edges of his hearing. When Geralt opens his mouth to articulate an answer, debris and shards of bone-white rock start raining down on them ominously, and the shaelmaar growls and huffs, ready to charge at them.

It’s not going to be a smooth, easy fight, that’s plain to see, but a part of Eskel  _ wishes  _ it to be challenging and desperate and dangerous --  _ like the good old days.  _ His more rational side, the one that usually prevails, is simply telling him that he’s being kind of a  _ suicidal prick. _

He takes a deep breath of the stale, humid air, and he finds his fighting stance at a slight nod from Geralt. Low center of gravity. Knees bent, but just so, for stability and explosive propulsion if needed. And, judging by the shaelmaar’s circular movements, it will be needed. Both he and Geralt brace for the charge and when it comes - it’s inevitable given the nature of the monster they’re facing - they dodge sideways at the very last second, both trying to stick their blades in its vulnerable spot before it regroups and charges again.

The dust and the debris are making it very difficult for both of them to see, still Geralt manages to strike true and his blade sinks into the shaelmaar’s stomach with a wet, squelching sound that upsets Eskel’s guts more than the decoction he’s hastily trying to wolf down. It’s not enough to placate the fury of the beast, though, if anything it only makes it even more rabid, as wounded, cornered animals always go.

There’s too much fucking dust coming down on him, to his taste. The rock above them wails and cracks, hurting his sensitive ears already thrumming with the potion and the adrenaline of the fight.

Another charge. Geralt gets knocked on his knees and his silver blade scrapes against the thick hide of the shaelmaar, now slick with the blood copiously flowing from the deep gash in his soft underbelly. Eskel tries another lunge and the beast roars, causing even more dust to fall from the vault of the cave.

It’s becoming increasingly difficult to discern shapes and smells in the heavy canopy of dust twirling all around and setting into his eyelashes, into his nostrils, making his throat sore and itchy, but he carries on nonetheless, all adrenaline and raw energy begging to be put to good use.

The fight is long and strenuous, grueling, the shaelmaar refusing to give up even when he and Geralt have managed to carve six, maybe seven holes into it. Things start to go a bit awry after another desperate charge; some bigger rocks start crumbling from the vault and, in order to avoid having his skull cracked open like a nut, Geralt leaps forward, losing his balance in the process. That’s enough of a misstep to fuel the shaelmaar with renewed vigor and he targets Geralt for its last, spectacular act. Though perfectly aware that Geralt could take care of the matter on his own - the shaelmaar is now weak, most of its blood smeared on the floor instead of pumping inside its body - Eskel can’t help but to throw himself between Geralt and the frenzied beast, covering the short distance with a single rushed step. Everything happens so fast. There’s debris, debris, even more debris, smell of blood and the acrid stench of his and Geralt’s sweat combined, the dry crack of a snapping bone and -- darkness. A single beat of utter darkness as his head hits against the cold travertine wall of the cave and a persistent ring sets in his ears, piercing through his skull like a fucking drill. A soft groan escapes his lips and he tries to get back on his feet, finding his fighting stance once more or at least pretending to, but the silence enveloping the cave is enough to persuade him that the shaelmaar is gone for good, now, that he doesn’t have to brace for another impact or get ready to duck away. Which means that he can sag back against the rock, assessing the damage while Geralt catches his breath at the opposite end of the cave.

_ Broken bones. _

At a first, tentative prodding, he detects  _ several  _ broken bones. Some ribs. His left arm, probably. Something in his back too, judging by the jolts of searing pain shooting relentlessly up and down his spine. Despite the hit, however, his skull seems just fine, though his fingers stumble upon a little swelling right above his nape.

“Eskel?”

He tries to breathe through the pain. Witchers have an extremely high pain threshold, yet he has never gotten used to the sharp sensation a broken bone leaves behind, let alone multiple fractured bones teaming up to  _ torment him  _ at the very same time.

He’s not one for wailing and whining but, fuck, he does whine in response, the hurt in his sides choking the air out of him with every raspy gasp he manages.

“Eskel.”

Geralt’s hand is on his shoulder, warm and comforting despite being bloody and bruised. He leans into his touch, and he gets the feeling that Geralt’s breath is coming easier now that he can see with his own two eyes that Eskel is still alive and, hopefully, he won’t die for his injuries in the immediate future.

“Got some broken bones,” he says, stating the obvious, when Geralt takes a closer inspection of his left arm and pokes gently at his chest, wincing at the feeling of his shattered ribs flexing unnaturally under his fingertips. Between a gasp and the other, he even tries to flash Geralt a smile, but the result is a hideous grimace instead.

Geralt appreciates the effort nonetheless, because he gives him a faint smile in return and his dirty fingers brush just slightly against his cheek.

“Can you stand?”

He’s not pushing, of course. It’s just the apprehension making his voice so thick, subtly urged under the fake composure he’s trying to hold up. But he’s right, though, Eskel must give him that. They have to get out before the vault caves in over them, and they need to collect some trophy from the dead shaelmaar to present to the alderman if they want to get paid. Eskel gives a small clicking sound with his tongue.

“I can try, Wolf.”

Geralt nods, squeezing his uninjured shoulder before walking to the carcass and crouching down to take the bloody trophy with his hunting knife, huffing and cursing while maneuvering such a heavy creature on his own, in a slight rush. A broken chuckle rips through Eskel’s chest and, again, he finds himself wheezing and sputtering, the pain in his ribs and sternum making his sore eyes wet.

When the shaelmaar’s head is safely secured to a hook hanging from Geralt’s fingers, Eskel limps towards him and he lets Geralt help him slide his uninjured arm across his shoulders for support.

“That was close, heh?” He hears himself saying, his voice raspy and hoarse and his throat sand-dry, with a lopsided grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Geralt bumps his temple into his, rubbing scalp against scalp like a giant housecat in the mood for cuddles, but he doesn’t reply.

***

It’s almost Midinváerne when a wealthy man all clad in heavy brocade and furs arrives at Corvo Bianco, bringing the news of a series of attacks carried out on the road between Beauclair and the countryside.

When he suggests that it could be a vampire behind the deaths and the disappearances, it seems to Eskel that Geralt’s face turns to a sickly, ashen shade before sagging imperceptibly as he nibbles on the scarce information he gets.

_ Not fucking good. _

He tries to recall his last encounter with a vampire, offering their unexpected guest some lukewarm mulled wine and a little honey pastry to warm his bones up a little after all the time spent on a saddle, all the way from Beauclair. It’s been kind of a long time, by the way. Vampires, especially higher ones, are a rare sight nowadays. Apparently, not in the fair Duchy of Toussaint, since even a common nobody has been able to state clearly that the monster that’s prowling around the highway  _ could be  _ a vampire. 

Eskel remembers having dealt with a nest of katakans six, seven summers before coming to Corvo Bianco to hang up his twin swords, and his memories regarding that particular contract are far from pleasant.

“I’m here on behalf of the Duchy itself,” the man is saying when Eskel comes out from his head, finding Geralt nursing his mulled wine with a thoughtful frown and his brow creased. “Sir witchers, we don’t know -- who else could we ask? It would take too much to find another of your kind to take care of the problem, and after what happened back in ‘75…” The man’s look becomes one of passionate, vivid grief. 

Geralt doesn’t say anything, his face stone cold, but his eyes give way to an equally grieved look, so subtle that only someone that knows him the way Eskel does could grasp.

1275.

What happened in 1275?

Though focusing hard, he can’t remember anything more than having heard of a very big, very important tournament being hosted in the duchy that year. And, of course, he knows that it was the very same year in which Geralt had acquired Corvo Bianco as a payment for his service from Anna Henrietta herself. But this doesn’t explain Geralt’s grief-stricken expression, nor the pallor that has set on his already pale skin at the mention of a  _ possible vampire  _ killing off travelers on the main road. In the gracious year 1275, however, Eskel was as far from Toussaint as he could be, he and Lambert stuck in Redania trying to hunt down the many necrophages attacking the ransacked villages that hadn’t been burned down by Nilfgaard’s army during the last years of the war.

Geralt enquires discreetly, his questions specific but not too sharp and direct, until they both draw a general outline based on the number of missing people, bodies found, and trace a pattern for the attacks. When the wealthy beauclarian leaves, excusing himself for being needed in a vineyard down the road, the sun is already setting, the chilly air making him almost disappear into his fur-lined cloak. 

“A coppery lintar for your thoughts.”

Still leaning on the doorframe, his arms stubbornly crossed on his chest, Geralt frowns.

“Mmmh?”

“Not a nest for sure, though the numbers are fairly high for a single vampire. Yet, a nest would have surely doubled the number of victims, so I’d go for the loner,” Eskel speculates, if only to bring Geralt out of his self-imposed muteness.

“Figured out as much. A single vampire. Greedy, so to say, or famished. Nine missing people and three corpses in the span of, what, three months? An impressive body count.”

Eskel is careful and gentle when he wraps his arm around Geralt’s waist, dragging him back inside, away from the biting cold. He doesn’t offer any resistance, except for a halfhearted huff, and he lets himself be pushed back to the parlor, where his umpteenth cup of mulled wine is going cold. 

“What’s between you and the vampires in this place?” Eskel asks softly, warming the spiced wine back with a shot of igni. He has no intention to pry, but Geralt does always act strange whenever someone mentions vampires or kindred creatures. He gets so uncharateristically silent, more inclined towards brooding than his usual. Something must have happened. Something Eskel doesn’t know about yet, but will hear - hopefully from Geralt’s mouth - sooner or later.

“It’s a long story, Eskel.”

_ Later, apparently. _

Respectfully, he drops the subject, focusing on the matter at hand instead. Which is-

“You really sure you want to pick up this one? If we are to face a higher vampire…”

Geralt shrugs, drumming his fingers incessantly against the hot cup. His hands, threaded with almost faded scars, look somewhat unsteady.

“Yes, I know. But -- do we really have a choice, Eskel? People are dying. More will, if we don’t do something.”

He looks so utterly devastated. Rather desperate, to be honest. As if the presence of a single vampire on the highway was something that he should be held responsible for, or blamed for it at least. As if it depended on him, and the blood of those that had already died by its fangs was now coating his hands.

How can Eskel deny him the possibility of taking care of the problem himself, when he’s obviously feeling so responsible? Finally, he nods his head.  _ If you want to get this done, then so do I,  _ he tries to convey, as he takes Geralt’s hand in his and gives it a small squeeze.

If they’re to face a higher vampire, however, chances are that they’ll never see the vineyard again. Nor each other, for what it’s worth. So many things could go wrong.

Eskel will never admit that, but for the first time in ages, the prospect of the hunt doesn’t thrill him, but it chills him to the bone instead.

***

Black Blood is, in Eskel’s opinion, the potion that affects his stomach the worst way.  _ Still.  _ He lets it twitch and churn as he chugs down the last drops left in the vial and he winces when it threatens him with a low, menacing rumble. Geralt is faring better, his tolerance of such high toxicity level concoctions enhanced, and he’s already crouching down where the trail begins, a faint thing even for a witcher. When he’s done forcing the dinner from the previous night back down where it should be, Eskel reaches him, taking a closer look to the tuft of dead grass on the side of the road, where unmistakable signs of a struggle have leveled the yellowish blades down.

“Blood,” Geralt states, holding his gloved fingers up for him to sniff them. “Perhaps a week old.”

Eskel nods. Male. Young. It fits with the description of the last person who has gone missing, the son of a Nilfgaardian merchant named Gyben. Barely seventeen winters on his back. He can’t help but sigh heavily at the thought.

The trail points towards the depths of the forest. Of course it does. They exchange a brief, knowing glance before starting to work through the clues scattered all around. Some more blood, mostly. The persistent reek of piss and sweat. Shreds of cloth. Human hair. All the victims are male, most of them young and presumably good-looking. Eskel is ready to bet his own knickers on an Alp, and the thought triggers a shiver to run down his spine. Despite his upset stomach, he’s more than grateful for the Black Blood pumping through his veins, making his heart thud sluggishly in his chest.

It doesn’t take too long for them to spot the vampire and her lair, a half-crumbled hut in the heart of the woods. Predictably enough, she’s ready to fight as soon as she ogles at the identical set of twin swords strapped on Eskel’s and Geralt’s backs and she sniffs silver, mutagens and danger in the cold air.

The fight turns bloody almost as it begins, with the Alp baring her claws and slashing unrelentlessly, her legendary stamina vastly exceeding that of a witcher in his prime -- it occurs to Eskel that now both he and Geralt can be considered a couple of elderly bastards even for witcher standards, and the realization isn’t exactly helping during a fight that’s based on endurance and precision. Still, he grits his teeth and casts a precise, powerful Yrden, keeping the vampire still as Geralt stabs her through the ribs with his silver blade. The Alp screeches, spasming and yanking at the invisible restraints keeping her inside the magic barrier, and Eskel feels his ears and brain  _ on fire. _

Something breaks inside him - could be a shattered eardrum, he has experienced so many eardrum ruptures over the years he’s surprised he hasn’t lost his hearing yet - and the shockwave makes his knees buckle. His Yrden doesn’t hold up and the faint purple glow subsides long before he has regained his footfall.

The ringing in his ears is messing up with his focus, and when the Alps throws herself at him Eskel isn’t fast enough to avoid a couple of slashes. The smell of blood, though tainted by the elixir, makes the vampire frenzied, overexcited, and her already inhumanly fast blows become even faster and stronger. Geralt manages to strike her between her shoulder blades, eliciting another screech that sends Eskel flying into the sturdy trunk of a bare tree, blacking out for a second for the impact. A surge of nausea brings him back to the land of the living, just in time to witness Geralt struggling to parry the rapid succession of blows landing against his blade, the high-pitched clashing noise resonating through the otherwise perfectly silent forest. 

He springs into motion even before processing what he’s doing, his jaw clenched against the nausea and the dizziness, aware about how utterly and nonsensically dangerous it is to try a surprise attack against a fighting Alp. The razor-sharp claws cut through Geralt’s armor like a hot knife through soft butter, but Eskel manages to bury his silver sword into the soft stomach of the vampire just before she strikes the fatal blow. A stroke of bad luck has Eskel disarmed, his blade stuck somewhere between the Alp’s vertebrae, and she pirouettes away at impossible speed, leaving him bloody and panting, unsteady on his legs though ready to fight. Mourning the loss of his sword, Eskel retrieves an antique silver dagger from his boot, his eyes scanning the clearing and his ringing ears strained to detect the faintest sound.

Nothing.

For a beat, everything looks perfectly still and silent. Then, the Alp is behind him, and Eskel feels a sharp, piercing pain in his side. Strong, clawed hands keep him from taking a look at what’s going on, his neck creacking and hurting as the Alp manhandles him, grabbing a fistful of his hair and yanking until Eskel feels pinpricks of blood bloom at the roots. When her fangs sink into his throat, Eskel knows that the fight has ended.

The Alp dies shortly after, choking on Eskel’s toxic blood, seizing and writhing on the muddy ground. Eskel would very much like to feel relieved in witnessing her agony, but the pain in his side is too sharp, so sharp it knocks all the air out of his lungs; panic starts flooding him when he realizes he is  _ fighting  _ to keep breathing, to keep the oxygen flow inside, and this is not right, not right at all, because he shouldn’t be struggling like this from a mere  _ scratch,  _ no, not like this.

_ Unless. _

He probes the wound with tentative fingers, hissing. This horrendous, grating sound he makes while drawing a labored breath after the other can only mean one thing, and when he tastes tainted blood on the tip of his tongue he's sure he has taken the right guess.

_ Punctured lung. _

A low, terrified “Fuck” escapes his lips while he frantically searches his pockets for his life-saving vial of Swallow. A punctured lung is a punctured lung, and even a witcher might not make it in time for the gash to regenerate nice and proper before succumbing to oxygen starvation.

It’s a risky move, he knows it; Black Blood is still in his system, and his toxicity level is already high, but he’s not sure he could manage a full detox before wolfing down his Swallow. So he just -- knocks the content of the vial back with a wince, his throat already filled with poisonous blood, and he gags. When the rib-breaking fit of cough has subsided, he drags his feet across the clearing, where Geralt is still laying, shuddering slightly.

“Geralt?”, he wheezes, crouching over his body with a pained grimace. There’s too much air going out all at once and not enough getting in to fill his lungs, and the sounds he makes whenever he tries to suck in an effective breath are now wet, gurgling and sickening. The world goes bright white for a split second, then pitch black. When the colors and the shapes return to his vision, Eskel is sure that everything - the bare trees, the earth, the lump of Geralt’s arched back - is coated in an icky crimson sheen.

***

“Eskel.”

Geralt’s voice seems to come from a very, very distant place, muffled and muted. He resists the urge of getting back to sleep, but it’s a hard fight. Every single muscle in his body hurts and aches, and breathing still feels like trying to dig up a mass grave with a teaspoon.

Hell, even the scar on his face pulls and itches, and the sensation is far from pleasant.

“Wolf,” he barely manages, trying his best to use only the good half of his mouth. The faint taste of blood still lingers on his tongue and teeth, making him more nauseous than ever.

“You overdosed on potions.”

A dry explanation, not a reprimand. Now Eskel can get why he’s feeling like crap. The hole in his chest, however, has apparently knitted back on its own. A small comfort indeed.

“Mmmh. Had to improvise.”

“You’re shit at improvising.”

The  _ mmmphf  _ sound Eskel makes is the closest thing to a chuckle he can conjure up right now.

“Your wound?” He asks, his fingers reaching for Geralt’s shoulder, where the deep slash is supposed to be. Geralt shakes his head, a small smile on his pale lips.

“Healed. I had some White Raffard’s. I had to improvise too.”

“Worth the stomachache,” Eskel points out, searching for a scar and finding none. Geralt curls up at his side, then, weariness bringing out the lines on his face, sighing heavily.

“You know what.”

“What.”

“We should stick to vineyard infestations. I’m -- sick and tired of vampires, Eskel. Especially after this,” he says, gesturing towards Eskel’s sore chest. And perhaps he’s right, perhaps they should really choose their contract more wisely, and Eskel feels ready to give this new accommodation a shot.

_ Half-retired is better than retired. _ Plus, he likes watching the crops grow and the grapes ripen, the olives getting fat and oblong. He likes the quiet and the peace -- he just doesn’t want it to be so  _ permanent. _

A nice stir to his muscles once in a while should do. He’ll make it do. Only if Geralt is okay with that, of course.

“Are you...doing this solely for me?”

He’s not an insensitive boor. He’d get it if Geralt would simply not be a witcher anymore. Even he had wished to be something else one too many times, only to discover that not being a witcher is harder than he thought, and sometimes downright boring.

Geralt snorts, shooting him a glance.

“I’m doing this for us. I missed it too. The action, I mean. But watching you almost die on me with a hole in your lung and a massive overdose has been...a wake up call, if you know what I mean.”

“My. You becoming  _ reasonable?  _ Unbelievable. I must be dead and this is some sort of a dreamy afterlife…”

Again, Geralt snorts.

“I’m serious, Eskel. No more vampires. We can take down archespores, barghests, ghouls, centipedes -- whatever. But no more fucking vampires. Ever.”

Something in Eskel’s face softens visibly as he replies “I’m serious too, Wolf. Thank you. I know I may sound ungrateful, but I don’t think I’m made for this. Retirement, that is. It’s just-”

“I know.”

Eskel nods. Somehow, he and Geralt have always understood each other perfectly without needing to waste too many words. 

_ He’ll make do. _

He’s sure he can live without facing another vampire for the rest of his days, after all. 

Ignoring the splitting pain shooting through his face, he plants a small kiss in the corner of Geralt’s mouth, tasting him over the coppery taste on his tongue.

“Thank you, Geralt.”

He feels utterly stupid while thinking about it, but -- he’s glad to be alive. Oh, so glad. Yes, the adrenaline and the thrill of the fight is surely something, but Geralt’s mouth on his, warm and accommodating, will always beat that.

And the heartache and the grief and all of the ugly things he has experienced on the Path, Eskel doesn’t miss them. Not one bit. 

So, yes, he can live like this. Half-retired. With Geralt. With a teeny-tiny bit of action once in a while, between a harvest and the other.

Sounds like a great  _ half-retirement  _ plan, at last. 

  
  


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